


Caller, Caller (the Cyclosporine Remix)

by theexile (timeheist)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gratuitous Sexual References, M/M, References to Bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/theexile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor discovers that the Master is working in a call center.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Operator, Operator](https://archiveofourown.org/works/234915) by [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch). 



> There are too many kinks to list.

Coordinate locks, the Doctor mused, were wonderfully helpful things. As soon as he, Martha and Jack had managed to escape the end of the universe - vortex manipulators, too, were helpful things - it had been simple work to make his way to the twenty first century and track the Master down. With sonic paper and a con-man on his side, it was just as easy to do some research on a one Harold Saxon in the hopes that - bereft of resources - the Master hadn’t been able to fabricate every part of his new identity.

As it turned out in the end, though everything had been fabricated, the Master hadn’t been so careful to hide the paper trail of the money he’d needed to build up Mister Harold Saxon, Prime Minister. It wasn’t until after The Year That Never Was, however, that he managed to find the source. Quite a long time, actually; by the time he remembered what he, Martha and Jack had started to do, and subsequently failed at, he had regenerated, and was by no stretch of the word a young man despite all appearances. And Skaro, but he missed the Master, even with companions to travel with. He wasn’t one to leave a job half done, so finish it, he did. Perhaps he’d have a chance to look on his adversary one last time, but he wouldn’t be able to touch him… In the end, all it took was a little time travelling to work out where the man who had paid in cash for a multi-hundred dollar suit from Saville Row had gotten the cash and he was - no pun intended - in the money.

It couldn’t have worked out any better than it did.


	2. Chapter 2

Not that the Doctor knew about… that kind of thing, but apparently IPSI - Instant Phone Sex Incorporated - was one of the longest-lasting and largest phone sex companies in the Greater London area. A trawl through the yellow pages supplied an actual office, and now that he thought on it, he actually remembered having seen their business cards in telephone booths and restrooms, back in his days of being stuck in England with UNIT. The thought brought a pang of irritation to mind, and lonliness - after all, he travelled alone these days - but with a disgruntled snort he put them to the back of his thoughts and toyed with the spring of cable sticking out the bottom of his telephone. He had his feet up on the console of the TARDIS (no doubt there’d be mud everywhere) and his scarf hung loose around his neck, trailing away from him on both sides of the chair. Finally, closing the ‘memo’ left him by one of his other selves, he thumbed in the 0800 number and bit the bullet.

“Hello.” The voice on the end of the line wasn’t a familiar one, but all the same, he knew for certain that he’d found the Master. Apparently it was a later regeneration - this one sounded like he was from ‘the North’. He’s purring, too, which simultaneously arroused and irritated the Doctor. Damn it, did the man have no decency? Then again, this was a phone sex line. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes, yes, hello.” The line went silent. The Doctor frowned, unsure if he was supposed to get the ball rolling, or the Master had cottoned on already. “I’m paying a pound a minute, so I’d like to get on with my sexual fantasies.”

Just why he was making this call, the Doctor wasn’t sure. Perhaps he just wanted to hear the Master’s voice; perhaps he wanted to wind him up. Perhaps he just wanted to work out how the mighty had fallen so low as to working in an Earth call centre, or if it was some sort of… game, that would all become abundantly clear to him sometime later.

Eventually, the young - excitable sounding - Master broke the uncomfortable silence. “Sorry, sexual fantasies?”

“Exactly.” The Doctor found himself smirking, making himself more comfortable in his chair. Well, he was committed to this, now. He could hardly hang up the phone, no, that would never do. What if the Master was in on the act? He would never live it down. No, he has to simply hope that the Master had no reason to assume that either the Doctor was the sort of Time Lord to do ‘this sort of thing’, or that if he was, he wasn’t do so in the hopes of talking to his ex-boyfriend. “It’s going to take some explanation, but I’m sure you have enough time.” He puts emphasis on the last word, chuckling. He wondered if this Master liked the sound of the Doctor’s voice? The last regeneration he’d actually met certainly had.

“I’ve been imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit. I’ve been strung up by my wrists, hanging in agony for hours as I'm questioned.” He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, already getting lost in his own memories. “They're using a torture device on me, and it spikes through my nerve endings like fire." His voice dropped lower as a certain other part of his anatomy rose highter. “Then the Castellan - the chief of security - comes in.” He paused; well, if the Master hadn't known it was him before, then the Gallifreyan references had certainly given the game away. Well, fine. Perhaps he would escalate the odds a little, take a little risk. Where was the fun in living life 'safely'? He all but shuddered. The Castellan back then had been an able-bodied older man with particular zeal for torture. His obsession had almost, but not quite, reminded him of the Master. “That's you, by the way."

"Right," says the Master. The Doctor wondered if he ever told the Master about Goth assassinating the Lord President. "Am I rescuing you?"

"You did in reality, more or less," the Doctor immediately regretted his slip-up, but he kept going, reaching pre-emptively for his belt.. "But since this is my fantasy, I'd prefer it if you took the torture device and used it yourself."

He could practically picture the Master smirking. Naturally there wasn’t a face to go with the voice, but he could sort of make one up. Young, definitely, caucasian probably, the always did seem to end up caucasian. Perhaps he was blonde, or the sort of man to wear nice clothes. Yes, he sounded… sophisticated, and honestly, he couldn’t picture the Master as even remotely scruffy. It just wasn’t who he was. He’d have to let him have this one, knowing a potentially embarrassing detail about the Doctor’s sex life. Perhaps it would come in his favour one day. And then, the Master spoke; if nothing else, he had to be commended for his, ahem, dedication to the job.

"Well, criminal," he says. "You won't give yourself up, will you? Let me see if I can change your mind."

The Doctor grimaced, the hand that he has already slipped down his trousers stilling. "That's good, but your voice is all wrong. Can you do, let me think,” he tapped his top lip with his free hand, looking for an ‘Earth’ description, “sort of a Russian accent. More Czech, actually."

The Master, it seemed, choked on a groan. The Doctor’s enthusiasm grew once more, a smirk colouring his lips at the idea that the Master might be… jealous? Perhaps he’d expected a fantasy about himself. Well, the Doctor was hardly going to give him the benefit of that; he was a versatile man after all. And besides - despite all evidence that it wasn’t going to last forever, in his timeline, the Master was all burned and crispy… it didn’t make for good material for masturbation.

"Vell, criminal," The Doctor melts into his chair. The Master had always been such a good actor. "Let us see how much of this pain you can stand."

"You'll never break me.”

Despite himself, the Doctor started to pant. His hand sped up, his grip tightening just enough to keep himself going, and he pit his lip as he laid his head back. He swallowed, choking out words. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all.

"Oh,” The Doctor gives in and moans, closing his eyes and pulling himself free of his trousers, “but I vill have so much fun tryink..."


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello, what can I do for you?”

Well, it could very well be him, but the Doctor… wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t a Master that he knew, wasn’t Koschei, but then his other self had been absolutely certain and if he couldn’t trust himself, then who could he trust at all? He stared at the monitor on the TARDIS console and tugged absently on his suspenders, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved by the relative anonymity that the telephone gave him. He could change his voice slightly, or just stubbornly refuse to give the Master any obvious hints. But then, he needed this. He’d gotten the message months ago and hadn’t known how to act on it. And then he’d lost Jamie and Zoe… well, to lose another dear love had been the final nail in his misery.

“Hello.” He took a while to respond, just a couple of seconds but it felt like a couple of hours. His voice was soft, and he found it hard to completely hide his nerves. It had been a long few days, after all. Everything with the War Chief, sacrificing his own freedom to set things right, the Time Lords putting him on trial... Well, any man would be a little lost for words. “You were recommended to me by…” he undoes his bowtie, “by a very close friend of mine.”

It’s not exactly a lie. One regeneration of a Time Lord is, after all, not the same person that he was before, or ever will be again. The Doctor knew that only too well; he’d gone from being an old, greying man with a granddaughter to a young, squat man, with much bushier hair and less experience of, ah, dealing with himself. Not that he’d get to try, now, but he was damned if he was letting this body’s lust go without, well, coming. If the Time Lords are going to force him to regenerate, then he’s very well going to make the most of his last phone call.

“I’m delighted to hear that.” He can hear the lie; years growing up side by side with the Master had given him that advantage. However, it doesn’t seem like a conscious one, just agitation. Perhaps the Doctor hasn’t recognized him, yet. After all, it could have been three weeks since they’d last spoke, or three millennia. “What’s your pleasure?”

“I’ve lost someone recently.” The Doctor decides to start by repeating himself, building up his lie. It isn’t just the tension around Jamie that he wants to deal with; the Time Lords want to strip him of his TARDIS, and the Master is hardly going to be the type to make social calls for as long as this exile is in place. The fact that a later version of himself had tipped him off gave him hope that one day, he’d be vortex-borne again, but when? Would he ever get to say he was sorry? He can feel his voice breaking. "We'd known each other for a long time, but now he's gone and I never got to tell him how I felt. I was wondering-"

“Of course.” Was that… excitement? The Doctor pouted, ever conscious of watching eyes across the corridor, of the Castellan scrutinising him, trying to make head or tail of the entire conversation. “My dear,” the Doctor shudders; yes, this was the Master all right, letting the act drop for just a moment, “what would you like to tell me?”

“No, that’s not quite right.” His tone was apologetic, his nose wrinkled, “Could you try to be a little more Scottish?”

Reluctantly, and with no small degree of surprise, the Doctor realised he was speaking even before he’d intended to. At this rate this was all going to be over too soon, and with no regard at all for Jamie’s affections, non-existant though they were. Oh, he would never get to find out how Jamie felt! Whoever he regenerated into, he hoped it would be a man who spoke his mind and approached the men, women and other assorted genders or lack thereof that they wanted to sleep with. It would make things considerably more simple if he could just get off.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m just going to talk,” said the Doctor, sitting comfortably in an armchair with a cordless telephone slung lazily across one palm. “You needn’t say anything. You can masturbate, if you like - actually I think I'd quite like that. Would you do that for me, please?"

Had it not been for the whole sorry affair with the Scrapyard, the Doctor was almost certain that he wouldn’t have bothered with this. His regeneration hadn’t, otherwise, seen the Master, and he’d decided out of sight, out of mind, was the best way to deal with it. And then the Master had turned up claiming to help him, a whole ridiculous mess had been made of it all - as often was where the Time Lords were concerned - and now he couldn’t put the Master out of his mind. Just who did he think he’d been, swooping in and stealing his victory from him? He’d made him look like a fool in front of the Knacker’s Yard, in front of Mel, in front of Peri, in front of Sabalom Glitz… it just wasn’t on! And then there’d been the way he’d spent half of the court session trying desperately not to get an erection. Well, then; two could play at that game. Now that he’d been, ah, tipped off about the Master’s future whereabouts, he could go about giving him a taste of his own medicine.

"Of course.”

He had no misconceptions that the Master would so easily do as he was told, especially if he recognized the Doctor’s voice. And why wouldn’t he? They were the enmity of ages, great rivals, the both of them - very important! The Master must have known who he was, but of course, he would stay true to his act. He wouldn’t let a little thing like the Doctor finding out spoil a plan and honestly, this one seemed rather harmless, according to his past self, so he wasn’t in the mood to intervene. He’d just make it a little bit harder for him, wouldn’t he? Metaphorically, or otherwise.

"Here we go, then.” He grinned, resting back in his chair and pouting. How to proceed… how to sexually frustrate the Master... "I enter your darkened room, shucking my coat as I go. You stir in your bed, opening your eyes to see my,” he licked his lips, “magnificent frame. You open your mouth to say something, but I dart forward and stop you with a kiss. You stiffen and your hands come up, but then you relax, clutching my lapels instead of pushing me away. You're crumpling my shirt, but I don't care. You've been sleeping naked - waiting for me?” The Doctor chuckled, already feeling himself stiffen, as well as - he hoped - the Master. “No matter. I reach down and grasp your turgid manhood, stroking until you whimper."

He paused, listening keenly for any sign of the Master’s frustration. He got it within seconds, a whimper that doesn’t sound even a little bit forced. There’s a few awkward seconds, where the Doctor began to wonder if this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, before the Master whimpers again, just as the Doctor renews his monologue.

“Very good.” He’s careful to be warm, encouraging as well as forceful. Having the Master respond like this is doing wonders for his ego, and he moves his hips, suddenly finding it harder to get comfortable. "I reach into my pocket, where I've secreted a tube of fragrant oil.” There’s one on the shelf beside him, as though the TARDIS is encouraging him as well, and he finds himself reaching for it. “You watch me with heated eyes as I trace my slippery fingers over your entrance. I press into you with one finger, then two, then three, too fast,” the Doctor started to pant, “I'm not gentle. I want you now,” his brow furrowed, “and you don't deserve gentleness in any case."

The Master’s moan, long and pained, is everything that the Doctor needs, and he almost wasn’t quick enough in pulling back the lapels of his shirt, grasping himself. He hummed, contentedly, trying to imagine what state the Master is in, now. Is he sprawled across a tacky plastic chair, one hand on his cock? Has he tossed his head back, are his eyes closed, is he biting his lip to keep from making any more sounds? Just how much would he dare to do in a call centre? Just what is he allowed to do? Oh, the scandal was exhilarating! 

"I turn you over and position myself at your entrance, just brushing your hole as I slick myself. You're shivering with anticipation, your muscles straining as you try to relax yourself for me. 'On the count of three' I say,” he closed his eyes, picturing the scene, “and then I plunge in at 'two' relishing the feel of your surprised tightness. You scream-" The Master does scream; it’s not much, but the sound is quite obviously what it was, and the Doctor looked up, almost as though he - too - has been caught in the act. “-and I thrust with all my might, impaling you on my shaft. I could fuck you all night. I will."

He waxes lyrical about the sheen of sweat on the Master, his perfect pink hole spasming around the Doctor’s massive spear, looking for the most colourful euphemisms that he can find. He wanted to keep it going as long as he can before he can let the Master finish, dragging it out so that he grows more and more frustrated, and really knows what it’s like. He holds the phone away from his ear with his clean hand, because the Master is panting like a dog, loud and harsh, and it very nearly rendered the Doctor incapable of talking himself.

"You can come now," he eventually manages to say, trying to sound blase, and he can hear the Master stifling a very real, very loud scream. He kept talking but really, the most of the work was done. If only he’d been able to picture the Master. “I shoot my hot load into your heart-shaped posterior. I grab your curly hair, exposing your neck and bite." He had been talking, he wa sure, to a Master whom he hadn’t met yet. A younger man, with a British-sounding accent (perhaps he’d regenerated in England, it had always seemed to attract the both of them). It was hard to finish himself off, without a picture to put to the voice. He found his memory supplying one instead, and let himself go. “Bite, oh Rassilon’s knickers, Maxil-”


	5. Chapter 5

“-s this the right number? I'm trying to work out a fantasy."

The Doctor spoke fast, his voice a little… airy. He had all manner of different drugs in his system - it had been a wonderful night with Charley and C’rizz - and now seemed like the perfect time to act on the information that his next self had left him, oddly cryptic about the rest of what would happen to them. Him. Himself. It was all very confusing, and he’d tried not to dwell on it. He’d saved this for a special occasion. If anyone could help him with the idea he’d had last week, when Charley had been talking about Lewis Carrol again, it was going to be the Master. He owed him that much.

"Why don't you tell me about it?"

So it is the Master. The Doctor would recognize that voice anywhere. He grinned, toying with the empty glass (well, there were a few remaining drops of something green) in his hand. He’d missed that voice, too. He opened his mouth, about to launch into an explanation before he lost his Dutch courage, when the door swung open and Charley stumbled in, a luminescent C’rizz close behind.

"Oh, wait-" He covered the receiver, smiling drowsily and stumbling to his feet, "Just a moment, Charley, I’m busy.”

"Are you really talking to a prostitute?"

"A very nice sex worker, Charley, now go play with C'rizz or something.”

Charley huffed with surprise, hiccuping as she turned to leave, dragging C’rizz by one wrist. Under other circumstances, the Doctor would have launched into a long-winded explanation for himself, but he didn’t feel like it. Instead he took his hand away from the phone, making himself comfortable against the door he had just closed while he steeled himself for the walk back to his bed.

“I'm sorry about that.”

"Not at all.”

"Anyway," says the Doctor, ignoring the Master’s amusement,"I've been having this dream where I'm an adorable rabbit and I, as rabbits do,” he flopped onto the edge of his bed, the last few drops of whatever it was sloshing out of the glass, “desperately need to have sex with another rabbit. Frankly, I'm finding it a bit disturbing.” As he did his companion’s mild obsession with Wonderland. It even seemed to be seeping into the TARDIS, little clues of it on every adventure they went on, even after travelling to another universe and back. No wonder he was dreaming about it, drugged or not. “Do you think we could play it out so that I can stop thinking about it? I mean,” he transfered his empty glass to his other hand and made himself comfortable against a newly-fluffed pillow, “I realize catharsis is a discredited psychological concept, but then again, my brain doesn't always work the same way as other people's do."

"All right. I'm ready."

"Excellent.” The Doctor grinned, bouncing slightly. “So, I'm hopping around, twitching my nose and looking for carrots. Oh, I'm a white rabbit, by the way.” He snapped his fingers. What a silly detail to forget. “With black ears, I should think. What sort of rabbit are you?"

"Brown…”


	6. Chapter 6

"Yes?"

"Ah, yes, hello."

The Doctor scowled into the phone on the desktop, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he lent over the sleek white buttons. The door to the console room was locked - Tegan was asleep, so far as he knew, anyway - and he’d been trying to get off for hours, to no avail. It just wasn’t any use without another person involved, he’d discovered. Masturbation didn’t quite seem to do it for him. The phone number of the sex line had been stuck to the console beside the telephone for so long that until he’d heard voice so unfamiliar but so full of intonation that he knew immediately who it was, he’d forgotten why he’d written down such a number in the first place.

"Tell me, do you have access to the internet?"

The Master spoke slowly, as though he was looking for something. “No… is that necessary?”

Scowling, the Doctor all but cursed.” I'm afraid it is rather.” There was nothing else for it. “I can wait while you find a connection."

"Just a moment.” The line went quiet, and the Doctor wondered if the Master had hung up. He rather suspected that he might have, had their positions been reversed. He tapped his fingers against the console in a drill, the plastic seat all too uncomfortable, but he didn’t dare venture into the TARDIS to find his bedroom, not while he was this hard. A few minutes passed before there was a crackle, and the Master’s voice asked, “still there?”

“Yes. Everything ready?” He barely waited for a reply. “No, do a search for the novel ‘My Secret Life’. You should be able to find the full text.” He had, after all, on sixteen separate websites, but not a single copy of ‘The Sexy Diary of a Victorian Gentleman’ seemed to come with audio. He glanced at one of the monitors, trying to remember where he’d left off and gone to find help. He’d gotten through ‘Virginity Slaughter’ and ‘The Hairy Bum Furrow’ but ‘A Convalescent Amusement’ really needed two people. “Go to chapter twenty-seven. Read it to me.” His voice catches in anticipation, his gaze trawling the screen. “Fifth paragraph down.”

"Providence has made the continuation of the species depend on a process of a coupling the sexes, called fucking," began the Master, and the Doctor’s knees buckled. He was sprawled in the console chair, and he made a mental note to get the TARDIS to build something more comfortable next time he updated the desktop theme. A sofa, perhaps, wouldn’t look too conspicuous. A leather one; easy to clean. "Fucking,” repeated the Master, as though unsure how to proceed. Yes, this probably was a bit peculiar, the Doctor thought to himself. “It is performed by two organs.”  
He murmured indistinctly as the Master continues to read the rest of the paragraph, just hearing the odd click of a mouse or sigh of resignation as he went along. He had already found something to do with one hand and he stuck the telephone under one ear as he sought something to do with the other. He closed his eyes, listening intently to the tech manual being read out to him, exploring each part of his body as it came up. 

"The prick, broadly speaking, is a long, fleshy, gristly pipe." He moaned, breathy, and he didn’t think he would have been able to say anything even if he wanted to. He grasped his cock, fingers stroking up and down the length until they rested at the base. “The balls, or stone bag, is a wrinkled skinny bag," the Doctor uses his other hand to grab one ball, fondling himself. Yes, this is much better. He couldn’t read aloud to himself and give his body the proper attention at the same time. It just wasn’t possible to do these things by the book when one was distracted, "hanging at the root of the prick and a few inches on its under side from the bum hole."

"A little - ah - slower, if you please," asked the Doctor, squeaking needily. 

"The stem of the prick is smooth, and usually free from hair until towards the point at which it connects with the belly and balls."


	7. Chapter 7

"I want you to insult me," barked the Doctor.

He knew he sounded matter-of-fact, not at all like a person who would be calling a sex line but frankly, he didn’t care. the Doctor says. He's not emotional about it, just matter-of-fact. Rose had been dropped off in London for a night with Mickey a couple of hours ago, and his thoughts had drifted to the Time War, to why he - unlike Rose and Mickey - had no one to spend the night with right now. It was his own damned fault. He didn’t even feel he deserved to get off, he just wanted to have an easier reason to feel as bad as he did.

"Abuse. I deserve it."

“Okay.” The man at the end of the phone line started to talk, and he seemed to relish the task given him. His voice seemed almost familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Not that it mattered; he hadn’t called looking for a friend. “You're a fucking coward, who runs away at the first sight of anything serious.” The Doctor blinked, but clenched his teeth together in furious acceptance of his fate, triumphant in getting what he wanted at last. “You play with children and animals because they're the only ones who will take your bullshit. Also, your clothing is generally awful.” the Doctor’s mind briefly trailed away from the sleek leather look this new regeneration favoured to the multi-coloured mostrosity he’d worn a few regenerations back, or the penchant he’d had once upon a time for bowties, and he couldn’t help but agree. “You should consider hats in order to hide the monstrosity you frequently claim is hair."

"...That's a bit specific," the Doctor scowled, running one hand over his buzz-cut. He’d actually thought it rather neat, functional, and it seemed to fit in with the kind of places that Rose took him too when she wanted to show him a little of her world. He was beginning to think that this wasn’t what he wanted after all. "I meant more like swear at me."

"Oh. Um.”

"Having love troubles?" Despite himself, the Doctor starts to chuckle, both interested and amused. He always had found it easier to deal with other people’s problems than he had his own. There’s silence at the end of the line, and he tries to sound a little less excited; no sense in making a stranger feel as though they’re being laughed at, especially not when he’s paying them sixty pounds an hour to do so."No, go on. This is... this is good."

"I hate you," says the man, staggered, personal. The Doctor couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been through. Was he pushing buttons that shouldn’t be pushed? "You ruin everything of mine that you've ever touched."

"I don't want to.”

"Don't fucking lie to me,” retorts the sex worker, and by the time that he had begun to trail off, his speech losing momentum and his voice getting quieter, the Doctor had begun to realise who he was talking to.

Is it a Master from before the Time War, or did the Doctor dare to hope that someone else had survived the moment? He supposed not; it was too much to wish for and he didn’t think he could survive the fall if he got his hopes up like that. So then, which Master was it? He didn’t recognize the tone of his voice, or the accent (almost Northernly, the one he himself seemed to have this time around) but he thought he’d met each of the Master’s regenerations. Perhaps this is a Master from the War, those years that the Doctor spoke to no one, who had to hide out on Earth for some reason.

He leans back in his chair, just letting the Master talk, and not trying to make head or tail of why he’s on a line like this, or if he knows who he’s speaking to. He was careful, on the odd moment he said some word or phrase in reply, to give no hint as to who he was. It wasn’t the punishment that he’d wanted but maybe that was the point; it wouldn’t really be the mental beating he deserved if he’d asked for it. And even if it’s only wishful thinking having him convinced he’s talking to the Master (no matter how specific the rant of hatred seemed to be) then at least he’s doing what he’s supposed to do. Helping someone.

The man/Master eventually trails off, gulping.

"You should talk to him,” the Doctor risks interrupting, "or her. Not like this, maybe. But life is short, and you don't realize it. You never know who you'll lose."

"Yeah, right.”

As the man/Master hangs up the phone, the Doctor hangs his head into his hands.


	8. Chapter 8

"Eh? Is this the, hem, sex hotline?"

The Doctor didn’t know why he’d called the phone number. It had been passed onto him by a later him - apparently it would be so remarkable to them at some point in his future that it was making the rounds. This really wasn’t his sort of thing, in fact, the idea that humans had invented a phone number you could call specifically to pretend you were having sex, over the phone, with a complete stranger, seemed absolutely vile to him. And yet he’d found himself growing curiouser and curiouser, as though having run away from Gallifrey in his youth, he now had to be careful to explore every possible forbidden avenue before he regenerated. And so, with a wrinkled nose, the Doctor sat in his favourite chair, feet up on a stool, and decided to see what all the fuss was about.

"Right.”

"Excellent, excellent.” Well, so far it didn’t seem particularly out of the ordinary. Was this what Ian and Barbara did in their spare time? He didn’t think they had, ah, sex hotlines in this period of Earth’s history, but it wasn’t exactly something he was certain about. “Now, I don't have very much time, my fellow-” he paused, remembering his manners, “what's your name?"

"Harry.”

"Making things up.” It wasn’t an accusation so much as it was a telling off. He couldn’t help himself. Something about looking in the mirror every morning and seeing such an old man was turning him into one. Oh, to be young and full of vitality again… He smiled to himself, bashful, but his tone was no less sharp. "I suppose that's what I want from you, hey? Making things up. Let me see..." He’d been told that people called these sort of things when they had, well, sexual pleasures that were outside of the norm. It took him a moment to remember what was outside of the norm for twenty first century Britain before he continued, memories of a pretty little thing back on Fortuna Major, just after he’d left Gallifrey for the first time, who could do all sorts of nubile things with…

"My arms are transformed into tentacles, gifteen of them. I love a good shokushu goukan, don’t you, Larry? They're covered in convenient slime, of course.”


	9. Chapter 9

"What year is it?"

“Two thousand… hold on.”

Finally! He’d been months in UNIT now, and the Doctor was going mad. Living linearly was just not the way for a Time Lord to live! Sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his cravat hanging loose around his neck he thumped the table triumphantly. demands the Doctor. It's a commanding, slightly bitchy voice, characteristic of his third incarnation. It didn’t matter what the next two numbers were, so long as it wasn’t nineteen seventy something, he was happy. 

"Oh my God, Mister Gladstone." There’s a different voice, and the Doctor scowls in confusion before he remembers who he’s calling. He’d just typed in the first number that had sprung to mind, a sex hotline from the twenty first century that he’d frequented before his exile. The men he’s talking to now aren’t anyone he’s deat with before, which at least makes this unorthodox phonecall a little less embarrassing. Ironic, given who he’d called. “You can rescue me from a life of sin anytime.” There’s a pause, and then the new voice - faded, as though not down the mic - adds, “two thousand five."

"Thanks," the first voice, older than the last one, returns. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," the Doctor makes a mental note, absently commenting: "your callers have some bizarre fantasies, don't they?"

"You could say that,” The man says, sounding utterly deadpan."I meant the year."

"Yes." The Doctor can’t contain his excitement any longer, amusement momentarily forgotten. He jumps around as much as he can from the confinement of a telephone box, and the phone jerks on the end of its cord. "I have surpassed the limits of my prison! Not by much, but, honestly, I'll take what I can get.” He tapped his bottom lip, sonic screwdriver still angled so as to point at the console box, and feeds a couple more twenty pence coins into the slot. He didn’t have any more time to waste with pleasantries. “Can you describe where you are to me?" It would probably be best to make sure that he’d reached the place he thought he had; after all, they didn’t tend to announce themselves.

"I suppose. It's just one of those cubicles with a phone in it."

"Oh, we have those now," the Doctor pouts. He’d hoped to hear something, anything, a little different. The twentieth century was getting droll, and he’d almost be beside himself to just hear the words ‘wifi’ or ‘hypervodka’ outside of his own thoughts. Then, he has an idea, half slamming the phone against the top of the cradle in his excitement. "Wait. This phone - is it one with an electronic display?"

“Right.” The Doctor can hear something clunking at the other end of the line. “LED display and everything. Caller ID, probably. That's turned off to protect your privacy."

Not that it would matter; the records probably weren’t thirty years old.

"And personal computers?"

The Doctor started to get carried away, resting his head against the glass. It’s an empty parking lot, and he’s not likely to be disturbed. He’d already disabled the nearest CCTV cameras, and it was the crack of dawn, the sun only just rising over the horizon. There’s the odd commuter, but no one is paying attention to the oddly dressed man in a phone box. It’s too close to UNIT HQ for anything to surprise anyone, anymore.

"I was using my manager's yesterday.”

"Tell me."

"It's a notebook laptop, about as big as a small textbook." As though slipping into his usual job, the man at the end of the line adopts a huskier tone of voice, slowing down his speech. It sounds like syrup, honey, and it does all manner of things to the Doctor’s loins in a way that… really, only one other man had ever done before. But it couldn’t possibly do him. The Doctor chewed his bottom lip. “I needed a specific text for a client, so I just connected to a wireless internet signal."

"Miniaturization," the Doctor murmured, losing inches on the wall as his legs turn to jelly, his cock twitching despite himself. "Hypertext."

"I used a search application,” the xex worker smacks his lips, practically purring. Damn it, the man was definitely doing it on perfect, and the Doctor was so frustrated that it was actually working! “And found the text on a website that has digitized a few books. I used the touch pad to scroll,” the man rolled his r’s like a feral cat, “down the page.

"Touch pads, oh.” The Doctor bites his tongue so hard he draws blood. “Yes. What did you do then, my fellow?"

He can hear his words coming together, and he doesn’t even need to use his hands, his trousers are already tented, his throat raw, but he doesn’t care. Sex workers are paid not to judge, at least, not out loud, he supposed, letting himself fall to the floor, his legs spread out as best he could manage to give… himself some space to breathe.

"I gave the notebook back, my manager plugged it back in to recharge the battery."

The Doctor moaned, fumbling with his trousers; he didn’t care if it was decent exposure, the Brigadier could probably get him off the uh, charges. He could probably get him off, too, if the man acquiesced. If there was any human that the Doctor was willing to bother himself with while he’s trapped, it would be the Brigadier or Jo.

"It's lithium, isn't it?” The Doctor finds himself gagging when the silence drags on, horrified to think that the signal may have died. This is no longer about establishing a strong link between this century and the other one; if the sonic is doing anything at all, it’s doing it on its own. The Doctor only cares about release from monotony. “Come on, man, lithium?"

"Six-cell lithium ion polymer.”

The Doctor has to put his fist in his mouth to stay quiet.

"Tell me," the Doctor panted like a whore, one hand wrapped around his cock, freed from the constraints of his trousers and the other cupped loosely over his mouth to try and keep quiet. The phone hung limply from its stand and it was all that the Doctor could do to grope around in his pockets and put all of his small change into the damned machine. “Tell me about organ transplants.” He didn’t want to exhaust himself on batteries alone. He wanted the full experience. “They'll have worked out the immune system suppression by your time."

"Um. Give me a second."

"Cyclosporine!" the Doctor all but begged.


	10. Chapter 10

"I'm not doing anything else weird.”

“Of course.”

As far as opening statements from sex workers go, the Doctor can’t help but think that was the weirdest one he’d ever heard. Just how frustrated with the whole situation had the Master gotten that he was letting his disguise slip? Had the Doctor postponed his making the most of this strange development in the Master’s life to the point where the other Time Lord would no longer play along and pretend? He thought over what to say carefully, keeping his voice mild, perturbed. The Scottish accent, he hoped, would throw the Master off the scent. It must have been a long time since he’d last heard this voice of the Doctor’s.

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to."

"Hah.” The Master coughed, as though surprised by his first response. “Right, what do you want then?"

"To talk," the Doctor said, simply."And what do you want?"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds.”

The Doctor was right, then; the Master really had reached the end of his rope. How long had he been in the call centre for, now? A day? A week? A month. The Doctor isn’t exactly knowledgeable in these sorts of things, just how much commission did he get per call? All of it? Just a percentage? It hadn’t crossed his mind until now, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for how much he, and his previous regenerations, had been egging him along all these months. Not that some of him had known what they were doing, at the time. He’d been particularly… desperate, in his third regeneration, and just what had he been thinking off with the self-lubricating tentacles?

"That could be arranged.” He decided now that enough was enough. “Nothing 'weird.' Unless you want it, that is. Tell me about yourself.” He sighs, getting up to make a cup of tea while he has the TARDIS to himself. No sense in getting ready for something else, not anymore. “ What do you look like?"

"Brown hair," the Doctor took it all, making mental notes. He’d probably have to recognize this Master later on in his life, and it really wouldn’t hurt to have a head start. "Short. Skinny little body, not sure I'm pleased with that. Nice face, though.” There was a pause, and then the Doctor sounded much more cocky and familiar. "Pretty good grin."

"Mhm. I've never met you."

“No. This just by phone,” the Master protested, playing the ‘dull human sex worker’ so well. “I’m not open to anything else.”

“I’m sorry.” The Doctor backpedalled once more, cursing his carelessness. “I was just thinking out loud.”

"Whatever."

The Doctor can hear the Master drumming on his desk while he talks, and tries to place the beat. It sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. A steady rat-ta-ta-tat, rat-ta-ta-tat… He shooks his head, putting it out of his mind and trying again.

"What do you want?" 

"What?"

"I'll give you your two hundred and fifty pounds if you tell me what your fantasy is," The Doctor shrugs, more for his own benefit. He wanted to keep the Master on the line, enjoy th experience, but spare his greatest enemy and once-upon-a-time lover any future embarrassment. "You can lie if you like, as long as I can't tell."

"Thanks. Done.” The Master is almost… snippy. Impatient, certainly. “Let me think… I've had dreams about motorcycles." The Doctor only just managed to stop himself from laughing. Hadn’t he ridden a motorcycle a few times, Ace’s one? Had the Master ever seen him on it? He found himself hoping so, because then maybe the Master wasn’t entirely lying through his teeth. "Can you imagine being fucked on a motorcycle while racing down the highway? Because I can. I'd sit myself down on his cock-"

"-my cock," the Doctor interrupted, absently. A smirk curls on his features. "Or don't I get a place in your fantasy?"

"Fine," the Doctor wondered where he’d left that leather jacket of his? Perhaps he can use this as material for later on, something to picture himself. For now, he focused on letting the Master set the scene. "I lean forward in my seat, gripping tight to the handlebars. You get me ready and I start the engine as you push in. I take your cock, all of it,” the Doctor took a deep breath, swallowing hard, and nearly missed the next few words in his concentration. He had a toy that could help with this, he thought, that had belonged to that Time Agent he’d once met. “The vibration between my thighs making my eyes roll back. You curl your hands around mine as the motorcycle starts moving. Each buck of the bike on the ground makes a tiny thrust into me, and then your feet brace against the pegs and you thrust properly." The Doctor couldn’t help but be impressed by the intricacy of the Master’s lie. "My hands twist on the handlebars and my legs spasm, and we go faster."

"And then we crash," announced the Doctor, determined to cut things off before they went any furhter than they already had. He ignores his throbbing cock, threatening to harden. He considered himself adept at telling when he was being lied to, and he had - after all - set one condition. "I'd think it might be wiser to try stationary motorcycle sex instead."

"That's reality," the Master pointed out, and the Doctor chuckled under his breath at the inanity of the argument, "this is fantasy. I haven't made fun of any of yours."

The Master cursed just as the Doctor raised an eyebrow. The jig was up, then. The Doctor went from authoritative to soothing, remembering just how touchy the Master could be when he thought he was being laughed at. He’d been that way since the Academy, always so eager and excitable, strutting around the classroom, until someone dared to call him on it and he turned quiet, brooding and plotting how best to deal an even worse blow right back.

"No, you haven't made fun of me. Which is why you'll be safe if you tell me an actual fantasy."

"You said I could make it up.”

The Doctor can picture his enemy pouting, and switches back to the ‘professor’ voice.

"I said that you could lie if I didn't notice.” He shrugged to himself, “I noticed."

There was a long quiet, not a single sound coming from either end of the line. The Doctor refused to hang up and the Master, no doubt, was doing the same. It was a pregnant pause, but the Doctor wouldn’t give the Master any hints. One of them would buckle eventually.

He never expected it to be the Master.

"I want to be talking, and then I want you to kiss me. I want you to be desperate for me. I want you to be pulling at my clothes.” The Master talked swiftly, breathlessly, giving the Doctor no time at all to interrupt. The Doctor thought back to the monologuing he’d done when his previous self had called, and decided that he probably deserved this. “I want to fuck you, and I want to see what you look like when you come harder than you ever have in your life. And then, when we're done, I want you to look at me and not be disgusted."

"I'm not disgusted with you.”

The Doctor winced. Did the Master - Koschei - think that? That had never been the case…

"I know," said the Master. "You're disgusted with yourself." The Doctor huffed. "When did you figure it out? Is that why you've all been calling the last two days? To laugh at me?"

The Master is angry now, and the Doctor can hear it in the hiss in his voice, practically dripping poison.

"I call because I like you. They're so bunched together because the next day my fifth self calls and you're not there. And my first self made a call a few days before, and you weren't there either.” He drilled his fingers against the cup of tea he’d made while he was talking, thoughtful. “I know the parameters of your employment, and all my selves are trying to crowd each other off the switchboard. Like skylarks trying to catch your attention. Or vultures trying to get as much as they can of a good thing before it's gone."

"You didn't answer my first question.”

"I might have always known," the Doctor sighed, "but I didn't really figure it out until just now, when you were talking about your body. You're not used to it yet.” He frowned, more worried than he cared to admit. The last time he’d seen the Master, he’d been more than a little low on new bodies. How many times had he regenerared since the cheetah incident? “Did you just regenerate?"

"I'm not answering that.” That settled it, then. The Master was definitely hiding something important. "Why are you falling over yourself to call a sex line?"

"I have the money,"the Doctor took a sip of tea, patting the pocket just below his lapels, "or someone else's credit card. And," he waited, looking for the right words, "and I get lonely. I'm sitting in my chair, and the TARDIS is dark, and I want another voice. Your voice."

The Master, for once, gave the Doctor what he wanted.


End file.
